Death of Riley (26 page)

“Stupid cow,” Ryan exclaimed. “She has precisely five lines in that scene. Is it too much to ask that she learn them? Does she expect to walk out in front of an audience in a few days and ad-lib?” He sank onto the wicker chaise longue. It was a warm night and we were still sitting out in the garden. “So was the play really terrible? Tell me the truth—I'm man enough to bear it.”

“It was brilliant, Ryan. Funny, yet moving at the same time. And very wicked—all those gibes at the American upper-class society women.”

A smile lit up his face. “Yes, it was rather naughty of me, wasn't it. But somehow I couldn't help myself. The words just spilled out and there they were on the page. But you give me hope, dearest Molly. I just pray that the first-night critics are equally perceptive and kind.”

When Ryan left, well after midnight, I went to bed in a much calmer mood. How could I have reacted so hysterically in the theater? Anyone would think I was turning into the kind of frail and sensitive young thing who got the vapors at the slightest provocation. Thank heavens I hadn't told Gus and Sid about my encounter with the shadowy stranger. They would have told Ryan and all had a good laugh at my expense. I was almost tempted to laugh at myself.

And yet my sixth sense hadn't let me down before. I had sensed a presence in that theater and felt myself to be in danger. I sat on the edge of my bed and tried to analyze it calmly. Who could have known that I would be alone in a darkened theater? Apart from Sid and Gus, nobody knew I had planned to watch the rehearsal. Even Ryan hadn't known I was there. But any one of the cast or crew could have known—the girl with the paint pot could have told them. But why would any of them have wished me harm? They didn't know me from Adam. So who could possibly wish me harm? The only person I could come up with was the man who killed Paddy. But why wait until now? Why risk going into a theater? I had walked alone through the Village on several occasions. I had ridden the El. I had slept with my bedroom window open.

I got up from my bed and hastily closed it. The annoying thing was that I should no longer feel safe when I went out alone. It would only be a matter of time before my stalker found out where I lived, if he didn't know already. I should pluck up courage to go back to that theater again, and this time get a good look at the cast and crew. Only this time I'd make sure I stayed close to Ryan.

I fell into a dreamless sleep and woke next morning feeling refreshed. The whole thing seemed like nothing more than a bad dream. I found it hard to believe that I had let myself get so alarmed over nothing. The product of an overstimulated imagination, I concluded. My mother had always insisted that my imagination would bring me to a bad end, if my sharp tongue and my airs and graces didn't do it first.

In the afternoon I went back to the theater, only to find the doors locked and no apparent way in. I walked around a little up and down Broadway, examining the crowd, in case my assailant habitually lurked outside the theater— although for what reason I couldn't imagine—then, reluctantly, took the Sixth Avenue El home again.

“I expect Ryan was in a temperamental mood and wanted no interruptions,” Sid said about the locked doors. “They take the play on the road at the end of the week, don't they?”

That was reassuring. If my shadowy figure was part of the company, he'd be safely far away by the end of the week. But I'd dearly have loved to have been allowed a quick look at the company, although I wasn't sure I would recognize Paddy's killer again if I met him. When I tried to picture his face, all I remembered was dark intense eyes, a black hat or cap of some sort, and lithe movements as he leaped to safety. Not a lot to go on—it was an apt description of half the young men around the Village. I felt as if I was fishing around in the dark. I still wanted to solve Paddy Riley's murder. I also wanted to make sure I stayed alive, but I wasn't sure what to do next. Paddy would have known, of course. He had the experience to know how to follow a case through to its conclusion. Daniel would also have known, but I wasn't going to Daniel unless I really had to—at least not until I had some concrete facts to present to him.

The next day a late-summer hot spell arrived, making us all too languid to embark on anything more than pouring iced tea and fanning ourselves. I knew I should be pursuing my investigation, but I hadn't the energy. I did manage to stroll across town to see Shamey and Bridie and take them out for an ice cream. My worries about their catching diseases from swimming in the East River seemed to be unfounded. They both looked revoltingly healthy and Bridie's little face had filled out. I returned home feeling relieved.

That evening, Sid and Gus were invited to a showing at a friend's studio. They invited me to go with them, but I declined, not being wildly enthusiastic about the kind of modern art that Gus and her friends painted. I sat out in the garden until the temperature dropped pleasantly, then decided to go to O'Connor's. Maybe Ryan would be there and I could ask him about the members of his theater company. I found that I was looking around cautiously as I walked out of Patchin Place, then down Sheridan Street, but I reached O'Connor's without mishap.

The place was deader than a doornail. It soon became obvious that the clientele of the tavern were all at the showing to which Sid and Gus had gone. I waited half an hour while I sipped a ginger beer, then left again. Ryan certainly wasn't going to come tonight—he'd never appear anywhere where there wasn't a guaranteed audience. I was tempted to join the others at the showing, but decided against it. It was still too muggy for walking. So I went home. I'd indulge in a long cool bath before Gus and Sid came back. I crossed Greenwich Avenue and stood at the entrance to Patchin Place peering into the darkness. Only one gas lamp illuminated the far reaches of the street. A breeze had sprung up, causing the trees to move in grotesque shadow dances and sending the first leaves fluttering. I suddenly regretted my foolishness at going out alone. I had only taken a few steps when a black cat leaped from behind a tree and streaked across my path, causing my heart almost to leap out of my mouth.

“Nonsense!” I said out loud. Just because of one alarming incident in a theater, I was not going to be intimidated for the rest of my life. I walked forward with brisk, firm steps and head held high. The street was deserted. I reached my front door without incident, turned the key and let myself in. I stood in the hallway and heaved a sigh of relief. I was turning into an alarmist— this would never do. I put down my purse on the hall stand and felt around for the matches that we kept on the little shelf below the gas bracket. The shelf was empty. I felt my way down the hall to the kitchen. There were always matches beside the stove. As I pushed open the kitchen door, I heard a crash. At that moment I felt a breeze in my face and noticed, with horror, the outline of the French doors leading from the conservatory to the garden. I had gone out leaving them open. From what I could make out, the breeze had blown over the small vase on the conservatory table.

I was about to reach for the matches when I heard another sound. This one didn't come from the direction of the garden. It was soft enough to be barely audible, but my senses were already fine-tuned. I stood frozen with fear. The sound I had heard was the unmistakable creak of a floorboard. Someone was in the house with me.

I wasn't sure what to do next. I had no idea where the sound had come from. I didn't think the floorboards on the ground floor creaked. I knew there was a squeaky board on the stairs, and one on the upstairs landing. If the intruder was upstairs, I might have a chance to escape through the front door. But if he was on the stairs, he'd see me trying to open the front door. On the other hand, he could already have come down the stairs and be waiting for me in the hallway. Not a comforting thought. There was no point in going out to the garden. It was surrounded by high, ivy-covered fences on two sides and the bare wall of another building at the back. Encumbered as I was with skirts and petticoats, I knew I wouldn't be able to scale either of those fences.

I decided against lighting the lamp, on the off chance that he didn't already know I was here. Holding my breath and moving as silently as I could, I pulled open the dresser drawer that contained the cutlery. I would definitely feel more secure with a large carving knife in my hand. My fingers closed around a knife handle and I lifted it from the drawer. There was a gentle swish of metal against metal that made me hold my breath again. Then, knife at the ready, I walked down the hallway.

He wasn't on the stairs. Enough light came through the glass pane at the top of the front door to highlight the shape of the hallstand and to shine on the middle of the staircase. He could, of course, be standing at the top of the staircase, waiting for me to come past. In which case, maybe the glint of a long blade in my hand might dissuade him. My breath sounded as noisy as a puffing steam engine and I pressed my lips together to stop the sound from escaping. I drew level with the hallstand. I had reached the front door and still nothing moved. My hand reached for the door handle. One turn, one tug, and I'd be free.

At that moment I heard an intake of breath behind me. I spun around as a dark shape leaped from the drawing room doorway.

“Stay away from me, I'm armed!” I shouted loudly, waving the knife. I lashed out as he came at me and I saw the glint of metal in his hand. He also had a knife, though not as big as mine. He went to stab and I parried with my knife. There was a satisfying clash of metal and for a wild second I felt as if I was playing the part of D'Artagnon. As soon as this vision flashed through my head the knife came again and I was reminded forcefully that this wasn't playacting, it was real. He made another jab and as I reached to parry, he grabbed my wrist.

“I should have killed you then,” he hissed in a voice little louder than a whisper. His face was close to mine. It was then that I saw his eyes. I had seen those eyes before, in the second before he leaped at me in Paddy's office— that intense, desperate, burning gaze of hate or panic, or both. I struggled violently, trying to free my hand from his grasp.

“How much … did he tell you … The old guy?” he demanded. The words came out between jerks of my arm, trying to get me to drop my knife. I responded with a hefty kick at his shins and a stomp on what I hoped were his feet. I heard another intake of breath, which indicated I might have struck my mark. I fought to get my wrist free but his grip was like steel. At least while I was flailing around with my own knife only inches from his face he wouldn't find me an easy target. His knife flashed toward me. I put up my free arm and the blade sailed harmlessly through the fabric of my leg-of-mutton sleeve. I mouthed a silent thank-you to Gus for providing me with such out-of-fashion garments. There was the sound of cloth ripping as he wrenched the knife free from the fabric. It caught for a moment and I decided to try his own tactic. I made a grab for the wrist that held the knife. My fingers closed around it—a slim wrist, slim as a woman's—and I held on. He let out a growl and hurled me back against the front door. My head crashed against the solid oak and sparks shot across my vision.

“Who did you tell?” he growled and braced to slam me against the door again. It occurred to me, as ridiculous thoughts often do at moments of crisis, that I should try to lead him on and find out what he thought I knew. But I didn't answer him for the simple reason that every ounce of my strength was needed that moment to stay alive. Obviously I couldn't keep going like this much longer. I could annoy and delay him for a minute or two, maybe, but he would have to triumph in the end.

But I certainly wasn't going to give in without a good fight. I had sparred and wrestled with my brothers in the past, but this was very different. They had been younger than me, and they hadn't been trying to kill me either. I cursed my stupid skirts that encumbered my attempts to deliver a kick where it might do the most damage, but I did manage to connect with his shins again. Then he used all his weight to slam me back against the door once more. As I braced to connect with the solid wood, the door miraculously opened. I felt myself falling backward into blackness, with my attacker pitching on top of me. I struck the ground. The wind was knocked from me. The knife clattered from my hand.

Then I was aware of my name being called, of shouts and screams. Figures were flailing and grabbing at my attacker. “Grab him round the throat, Gus!”

“Watch out, he's got a knife”

I summoned my own strength to bring up my knee as hard as I could and heard a satisfying yelp of pain. At that moment Sid snatched up my own knife, yanked back the stranger's head and held the knife to his throat. “Drop the knife this instant, or I'll cut your throat,” she commanded.

The knife fell to the ground beside me. Gus snatched it up.

“Get up,” Sid said, my knife still at his throat.

She half-dragged him to his feet by his hair. I scrambled to my feet.

“Did you think because we were women we were easy pickings?” Sid demanded. “Go into the kitchen and get string, Molly. We'll tie him up and then go for the police.”

I ran through to the kitchen and found the ball of string in the drawer. As Gus and I attempted to bring his arms behind his back, he lashed out like a madman, sent Sid sprawling to the cobblestones and took off down Patchin Place.

“Are you all right, Sid dear?” Gus dropped to her knees beside her.

Sid sat up and put her hand to her mouth. “I think so, apart from a bloody lip and a nasty bang on the back of my head. But I'm fiirious that we let him get away.”

“We didn't let him. He was just too strong for us,” Gus said. “I'll go for the police. You and Molly get inside and take care of your wounds.”

“No,” I exclaimed. “Don't go for the police yet.”

“Why ever not? They can catch him before he gets too far away.”

“It's useless,” I said. “A young man, dressed all in black? Half the inhabitants of the Village fit that description. Did you get a good look at his face?”

“Not really,” Sid said. “It's too dark out here and it was all so sudden.”